Rosa Mundi
by Cornix
Summary: The beginning of the end, and Tiberias tries his hand at leavetaking.


Author's notes: Movieverse, obviously. Rated K+ for general gloom and Irene's profession.

The beginning of the end, and Tiberias tries his hand at leave-taking.

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**Rosa Mundi**

In the end, when the bells were finally silent and the black smoke had dissolved into the pale sky, when the brief lying in state had ended with the heavy stone settling into place with a soft jarring grind and a cool night had passed with scant stars and a drizzle of rain – in the end he returned to his office to get some work done.

It was quiet there. His clerk stayed out of his way. He signed some documents laid ready for signing. When he raised his head to look out into the courtyard a few petitioners were waiting, fewer than usual. _Yes, that was to be expected_, he thought and called for his clerk to admit them, one by one.

He dealt with their requests and complaints and told the clerk off for the quality of the latest batch of writing materials. He skimmed a document that had been sent down from the chancellery, something to do with reconciling conflicting legal procedures, and recalled nothing of what was written there and put it to one side to re-read later. He looked up to see that four more petitioners had arrived outside, and dealt with them as well. He rose and went to the window, noting pale sunlight on the flagstones and that somebody had replaced the faded flowers in the earthenware pot on the sill. _Lilies_, he thought distractedly and returned to the documents on his desk.

By mid-afternoon no more petitioners were arriving, and the written words slipped past his mind. He caught himself staring at the wall, following strange patterns on the tiles. Those little red spearheads in the corners – where four tiles met they formed a cross. A four-petaled red flower. A series of crosses, latching the tiles together. How strangely they stood out now that he had noticed them.

Suddenly the silence was deafening, the walls too close. He got to his feet, abruptly enough to make the chair scrape harshly back. The clerk looked up but did not speak. Outside in the free air he breathed deeply. The watery sun was gone; the clouds were high. On leaving the courtyard he turned left without thinking, then caught himself and turned away before he had quite realized what he had been about to do. He went down towards the market instead.

The streets were quiet. People were about, but there was little haggling, little noise. _Has something happened? _he found himself thinking, once. He kept walking.

The deep cool alleys were quieter still, and he slowed down a little. Above, the sky was a ribbon of pearly white. His footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. An old man sitting on the steps in front of his doorway raised a hand in greeting, and he nodded back. The alleyways criss-crossed and intersected, opening endlessly before him. He knew them all, from many years back, but still they seemed oddly familiar. Had he been walking here last night?

These were more prosperous quarters – archways instead of doors and wider alleys, a fig tree growing in some sunny corner. He passed the arch opening onto yet another courtyard, and halted mid-stride.

There was awkward movement inside, a glint and jangle of metal, as of armor. The thump of some heavy object being set down. Something was going on, something untoward. His hand went to his sword, and he turned back.

There was no sign of wrongdoing after all. The small courtyard was quiet, the rose and laurel trees undisturbed in their pots along the walls. He would not have expected the door to be open, though. Or the pile of chests and bundles against one wall, the two armed men standing watchfully by. They nodded courteously enough when he passed them, but he felt their eyes following him. He entered the house unchallenged. No doorman came to inquire after his wishes. In the small shadowy hall he stopped, frowning. There was a light here normally.

A thump; a sharply raised voice somewhere above. "Take care with that, it's valuable!"

He followed that voice and the sounds of shuffling and dragging and heavy lids closing up the stairs, turning right at the top. He had been here before.

The room where she received her visitors was stripped bare. The furniture shoved into one corner, the carpets gone. He stood for a moment, taking it in, strangely unsurprised. She was going home, then. She had always said she would, eventually. Another year or two, perhaps, not more – although she had said that four years ago, at least. He turned on the threshold to try the parlor at the end of the passage.

And there she was – back to the door, hands on her hips, wearing a plain russet gown and her hair hidden under a linen turban, overseeing the rolling up of some tapestries. The doorman was there and a workman. And her maid, standing ready with swathes of burlap to do the wrapping.

"Irene", he said.

She turned, her eyebrows arching. Too tall and wiry for real beauty, the long fine-boned face looking even longer without its pale cascading ringlets. It had not impaired her success; the men who came to see her did not come for prettiness.

"Tiberias, what an unexpected pleasure. I didn't know you were going to call."

"Neither did I. I wondered what was going on below."

"Oh." She nodded and preceded him out into the passage. "Yes. Come, walk with me."

She set off towards the gallery that overlooked the courtyard, not speaking until they had turned the corner. Then she said: "Are you surprised?"

"It is rather sudden."

"You would have received word, of course. Like all my friends. But it is time, I think."

"Constantinople, then."

"Yes, I am finally going back. – I believe I'll be a widow", she added thoughtfully.

"Of how many men?" he asked.

She raised one hand as if to smack him. "That was crude, my lord. One will suffice."

He acknowledged both statements with a brief dip of his head. "You won't be working any more, then."

"I don't think I will", she agreed. "I thought about it, but it would take me a year or two just to establish myself. I may get married instead, to some good man. Not too close to the court, not too far from it."

"If you want my help with anything, let me know", he said. "I know some people in Constantinople."

"Ah, but so do I." She grinned, and for one brief moment he saw the girl she must have been. Then she was serious again. "No, that is kind of you, Tiberias. I may. It has been a while – I'll have to do some picking up of threads." She paused and turned towards the balustrade, looking down into the courtyard. One of the men-at-arms happened to look up, and gave her a brief bow. "All of this", she said quietly, pointing with her chin, "is going to Acre when the pack-horses arrive, first thing tomorrow. The rest will follow within the week."

"Why now?" he asked.

"As if you didn't know." She was leaning on her hands, looking down on the long fingers splayed on the stonework, ringless for once. "The King is dead. This city will change, and not for the better. I believe the truce will end – one way or another, somebody will make it happen. And after that I don't think I want to be here any more." He turned his head towards her, startled. From her voice he might have thought for a moment that she was crying. But she was not.

"I prayed for peace, yesterday at church. For the peace of his soul and the peace of his city. It was so beautiful, that sea of light – all those people – you might have thought –" She shook her head, sharply, and fell silent.

He frowned. "You went – ?"

"What did you think? My neighbors went. The Arab goldsmith and his family and the loud little horse-dealer. I saw them setting out together and thought I might as well do as much. I saw you, too, you and your knights standing guard over your King's catafalque. Swords drawn, no less." She straightened, turning. "And by the way, my friend, I noticed you are still in that –", gesturing towards his sword, the fivefold cross encased in the heart embroidered on his breast. "Tiberias, you never slept last night. You never even went home. You must have been on your feet for days now. Tell me, what are you doing?"

He stiffened. "I chose to go for a walk, Mistress."

She nodded slowly, undeterred. "_Infandum, regina, iubes renovare dolorem_. Forgive me. – I loved him too, you know", she said. "Oh, I never even saw him – although I am told he was very beautiful to look at, one time." There was no trace of a smile in her voice, and his sudden surge of anger ebbed. "But he made this... this _world_ we have been living in, he defended it all these years, we all knew it could not last, and now... " She dashed an angry tear away. "I like this city. It has been good to me. Leaving it will not be easy."

"It will be poorer without you", he said, and meant it.

She did smile now, very wryly. "It is so much poorer now, I doubt it will feel the loss of one pretty woman very deeply. For all our praying, something has been taken from this world that cannot be returned. You of all people know it; don't insult me by pretending otherwise. – _Fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens gloria Teucrorum_", she quoted softly, and bit her lip. "Oh, God, I wish I didn't have to see it."

"It may not come to that", he said.

"Too late, Count of Tiberias. If you truly wanted me to believe that you shouldn't have spoken of politics so often. I am not waiting around for some calamity to fall. As surely it will. Enough of that. – Will you dine with me?" she asked, matter-of-factly.

He thought. In truth, he did not feel like company. But it had never occurred to him to eat that day; he would have to, eventually, somewhere.

"Dine, yes", he said.

"I am not offering anything else. These are my last days here. This evening belongs to Manuel. He is crushed."

Her son. An accident, seven or eight years ago.

"He doesn't want to leave his friends", she said. And smiled again, briefly. "Believe it or not, I imagine I know how he feels."

It was a silent meal. They spoke a little of Constantinople, and a little of Arab writing, a subject she knew to be dear to him. Her maid served the dishes, exquisite as usual; both lingered over them without eating much.

"Go home, Tiberias, and get some rest", she said as she saw him to the door, candlestick in hand.

_Not yet_, he thought, dismayed at the black dread of calling the day done.

"I may", he said, and was surprised when she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

"God protect you and your city and that fierce heart of yours", she said. "I'll pray for you, my friend. We may meet again, you know, but even if we never do I will not forget you."

"I will remember you as well. God be with you", he said, and strode off into the falling night.

_finis_

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Irene's quotes are both from from Virgil's _Aeneid_; the first translates as _A grief too great to be spoken, lady, you ask me to relive_ and the second as _We Trojans are finished, Ilium has ended and the vast glory of the Trojans_.


End file.
